His Highness Joins the Band
by edleweiss
Summary: Orczy's later novels include discussions between the Prince of Wales and Sir Percy that allude to His Highness knowing the Pimpernel's identity and offering him counsel. How did he discover Blakeney's secret?


It was rare to see Sir Percy Blakeney dwarfed. Although his jovial grin and inane laugh often betrayed his good nature, he could cut quite an intimidating figure when he drew himself to his full height, towering head and sometimes shoulders over other men. His great coat with its many draping capes could not disguise the breadth of shoulders and the delicate, ruffles of the lace cravats he was so fond of only emphasized the strength of his chest. But the opulence in the Throne Room at Carlton House rendered the baronet almost unremarkable. Standing at one end of the long table, the scale of the room, with its high ceiling and vast openness, made Blakeney appear to be of average size. The richness of his dress could not distract from gilded furniture or red velvet drapery nor could his spectacularly blue coat detract from the vividness of the paintings adorning the ceiling and walls.

Although he was the Prince of Dandies in every salon and ballroom in London, Blakeney could not steal command of the room from its only other occupant, the Prince of Wales who was seated on his throne at the far end of the table. Under normal circumstances, the Prince was only intimidating because of his title and placement at the head of every table and in the most prized box at every theatre. He was short and portly and brushed his curling hair forward to conceal his receding hairline. Typically care-free and as jovial as any fop at court, it was uncharacteristic that his face should now be clouded with sternness and his lips pursed in annoyance.

Throughout the court it was well known that Sir Percy was the Prince's dearest friend, one of the few who dared to address him without ceremony. But even though there was no audience currently present to demand proper etiquette, Sir Percy added to the caricature of a humbled giant as he acknowledged His Highness with a low bow. Perhaps his atypical display of decorum was inspired by the impressive trappings of the room for, with the length of the room and milor's weak eyes, it is doubtful that he had noticed his friend's grave expression.

Regardless, the Prince did not seem to notice the display the submission as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and sighed, "Blakeney, I know your secret."

Although spoken softly, the tone of the words lost none of its regal firmness when they reached Blakeney's ears at the other end of the room. For a moment, the broad back, still bent in respect stiffened, but just as suddenly, he rose and resumed his usual, languid posture. Every bit the fop, he strode forward without waiting for His Highness's permission to advance. However, as he neared the center of the room he lost some of his boldness and flopped into a chair along the middle section of the table. Either he had caught sight of the Prince's humorless face or some sixth sense warned him to tread carefully.

"La, but I swear that the waistcoat that I wore to the water party was the same one I wore to the theatre a fortnight ago!" He drawled safely from his seat, "I told you then that I simply had one of the maids change the gold buttons for tortoise—"

"I know your secret." The Prince raised his voice slightly as he cut off the other man's prattling. He stepped down from the dias and crossed the room to take the seat next to him.

"Last month, just after Lord Grenville's ball, I sent for your opinion on a cravat only to be informed that you were away, managing your property up north. This struck me as odd. You had not mentioned any impending trips the previous night at the card table and I had just received an invitation to a water party that your wife was to be hosting that very week. So I sent a courier to discover what the devil you were doing in the North. The response I received?" He paused to lick his lips and then proceeded to imitate a Scottish accent, "The Master idnt here an we don expect him fir some time. Sheerly ye kin find him at Richmond?"

Sir Percy had listened with furrowed brow, nodding slowly. He turned to the Prince and grinned, "Did you find me at Blakeney Manor."

Whatever joke the baronet had found in the matter was eradicated when His Highness curly replied, "No. You were in France, Blakeney."

"France?" The accused man blanched, "Egads how did you reach such a ridiculous conclusion!"

The Prince smiled for the first time the entire afternoon. Percy's lack of excuse was worth the same to him as a straight forward confirmation. "Why, Sir Percy, I have observed a pattern. You disappear for several weeks at a time, almost always unannounced. Upon your return, you claim to have been fishing, or sailing, or visiting your blasted tailor, but despite the harmless nature of these occupations you always come back worse for the wear." He noted as he stared pointedly at a fading scratch above the baronets left eye.

"What's more is that your returns always coincide with the arrival of French refugees. Your closest friends are known associates of the Scarlet Pimpernel and your brother-in-law was recently rescued by him, while you purportedly were in the North. Oddly enough, although he was nearly guillotined while you were relatively safe, inspecting your estate, it is to _you_ that Lady Blakeney now clings after so many months of estrangement!

"I know you are the Pimpernel and I want to join the League." The Prince glanced at his friend. Blakeney's attention was focused on his slender fingers as they absently traced the colored patterns cast on the table's surface by the crystal chandelier above their heads. For several moments, he gave no response, his lips pressed firmly together in silence.

When he finally realized that His Highness had completed his request, the most admired man in England sighed and rose from his seat. He took another moment, turned facing the row of mirrors along the wall, hand folded complacently behind his back to gather his thoughts. Then, with head bowed apologetically, he gave his reply.

"It isn't possible, George."

His informal address and sympathetic tones implied a request that this be treated as a matter between two friends rather than sovereign and subject or intended chief and follower. But his appeal was lost on the Prince who rose from his seat and grabbed the taller man's shoulder, forcing him to turn around. Angered flared in his eyes and he demanded, "Why the devil not, Blakeney? Are you denying a request of the Prince of Wales?"

"Your Highness must understand that that is exactly why I cannot grant your request. Every member of the League takes an oath of obedience to their chief. Adhering to this oath, 19 brave Englishman disregard the law, the bonds of friendship and love, and even the instincts to secure their own personal safety in order to rescue innocents from that terror across the channel. To allow you to take that oath would create a rather precarious situation. Your presence in France would put more than your life in jeopardy. Those demmed Frenchies have developed a rather profound dislike for monarchies and for Britain. Were they to capture the heir to the British throne on French soil, you would certainly perish on the guillotine and old England with you. My men and I are already enemies of France, hunted by every one of her loyal citizens and I will not commit treason against my own country by risking my future king's neck."

The Prince sank back into the chair. As a prince of the realm, His Royal Highness had rarely been denied anything. Recently, however, he had been hearing the word "no" more frequently. Fox had declined to present a bill to parliament requesting further funds to pay his debtors. Pitt had flat out refused to hear his petition to grant Mrs. Fitzherbert* a title and his father had not only said no to his request to be excused from the reception of yet another German Princess at court, but he had also insisted that his oldest son attend without his mistress.

The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel could have offered him distraction from the court's refusal to recognize his wife, his father's insistence that he marry a more acceptable one, and the crushing weight of his increasing debts. But now, he had been denied this means of respite. Of course, he had other reasons for wanting to join the ranks of that secret band. As taxing as he found his way of life, he intended to keep it. Should the anarchy promoted by those hooligans on the continent spread across the Channel—well, he had studied Charles I in his youth and nearly shuddered as he considered his fate.

Aware that he was under the intense scrutiny of his friend, the Prince inhaled deeply and tightened his jaw. "Sometimes, I think about Louis over there, locked up behind stone and iron bars. And then I think about myself, sitting here, surrounded by all this—" his waving hand indicated the lavish decor "—and what would happen if it was Englishmen, instead of the French, turning the world upside down." He bowed his head and paused for a moment before continuing. "Then I start to feel sorry for the bastard. For all of his encouraging the colonist in their revolt and ignoring all the problems in his own country, he doesn't deserve death. None of them do."

"I can't save the king, George." Percy said quietly, admitting what they both knew to be true. It would be impossible to get near to the dethroned monarch let alone spirit him out of France.

"I know. I just want to have made every effort to oppose that blasted Revolution. Lest it spreads to England!"

The last sentence was more of an after thought, tacked on with a forced laugh to disguise the intense emotion carried in his voice that betrayed his sympathy for imprisoned and condemned in France. Although Percy did not look, he knew the Prince's eyes now bore the same gleam as did Tony's or Andrew's or any other member of the league when they spoke of the Terror. His friend's frustrated indignation and feelings of helplessness were the same that he had experienced after the St. Cyr's went to the guillotine.

He sighed. "You understand, George, that if you take the oath, you will be like all the others: a follower. You must be subordinate to the chief in all matters relating to the League, whose first goal is to secure the lives of the innocents and then those of his men. These objectives come before your sport and diversions. As a result, it is unlikely that he will permit you to travel to France. All the same, he will ask for your submission to his every command and that you maintain the utmost discretion here in England. If this is an agreeable compromise to you, my friend, I will accept your pledge to be loyal, discrete, and obedient to the Scarlet Pimpernel."

In an odd reversal of roles, the Prince of Wales dropped to his knees before the mere baronet and kissed his signet ring. "You have it, chief."

The future George IV never underwent a mission to France, remaining instead on English soil to render immeasurable services to his chief. On multiple occasions, it was his political maneuvering that thwarted parliamentary and royal inquiries into the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel. When politicking failed, his well-timed temper tantrums served as distractions, including one in 1793 in response to his younger brother's marriage to a Catholic. The fuss, demanding once again that his own papist wife be formally recognized, left Pitt with such a headache that the British government forgot to admonish Sir Percy Blakeney for agreeing to duel with Ambassador Chauvelin. In the end, the French envoy never received satisfaction or an official apology for the insult that the baronet's wife had dealt his countrywoman.

Yet, for all of the boisterousness of his nature, the Prince kept his oath for the rest his life, never mentioning his connection to the Pimpernel. He left everyone, including Mrs. Fitzherbert, Lady Conyngham, and his other mistresses, unaware that he was associated with the League. Even his biographers would be unable to ascertain whether he had even been aware of his closest friend's role during the Terror. The Scarlet Pimpernel, on the other hand, knew how many lives were owed to His Highness's distractions and remained eternally, if silently, grateful.

* * *

A/N: *Mrs. Fitzherbert, a widow and a Catholic was the Prince's mistress before secretly marrying him. The court and Parliament refused to recognize her as his wife and declared the marriage invalid. Although the Prince continued his relationship with her for several years, his debts forced him to abandon his endeavors to have the marriage recognized and marry Queen Caroline.


End file.
